


Your mouth like the best wine

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Worship, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Female Masturbation, I will face canon and walks backwards into hell, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Toxic Relationships, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Pregnancy Kink, Public Sex, Secret Orlesian sex parties, Sex Magic, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-07 22:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7732549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ellana Lavellan stumbles upon what seems to be a sexual fete at Halamshiral, she chalks it up to an uncomfortable experience she can laugh about with friends. That's until an invitation from the son of a wealthy and ruthless Comte arrives at Skyhold, claiming Ellana as the guest of honour at his own soiree of the same nature. Realistically, she can do this. She's actually quite alright with some exhibitionism; this kind of stuff is hard to do being the Herald of Andraste.</p><p>But the only one able to accompany her is a completely disgruntled Commander. A Commander she has been pining after for months. A Commander who she just wants to kiss her already, dammit. A Commander who must watch her undress and have sex with someone else.</p><p>Ellana doesn't think it can get much worse than that. Until it does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For a DA Kink Meme **[prompt](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/16181.html?thread=63050293)**. I tried to include everything on the list!
> 
> Since I am a sinner, the title comes from Songs of Solomon. 
> 
> Tags and warnings might change. I will make a note of it at updates.
> 
>  **Canon Divergence** Everything after Halamshiral has been thrown to the wind. And I play in the DA2 sandbox as well. 
> 
> **_!!!_** This story is going to delve into talk of toxic past relationships and some pretty awful fall out from that. Nothing will be explicit and I am doing as much research as I can to be respectful of that, but I won't be going easy. I will try to keep the tags updated if I change anything and will give fair warning when the actual time comes but all of the knowledge will be through dialogue.

Ellana's heart flutters wildly in her chest as she bounds down the gilded halls of the Winter Palace. The smile on her face is straining her cheeks, the flush across her face prominent in the harsh glow of the moon, the steady _click-click_ of her shoes echoing around her.

The Commander had danced with _her_.

After everything that had come of that evening, how her fingers had trembled terribly as she tried to wipe the blood from them, the heap of the Empress' body on the grand hall balcony burned in her memory, her eyes wide and peering out over her people in what seemed a silent plea, the rattling uncertainty she had as Briala assured her that blood had to be shed in the face of such change, in the middle of such _stagnation_ , Ellana had lost all hope of coming from this night without anything but horrid memories dripping in ostentatious gold.

Ellana couldn't say if the night had actually gone to plan; there was no plan upon entering the ball, abruptly aware of all eyes that shifted in her direction. A _Dalish_ in the courts. She knew the oddity of her presence, felt it in the impatience of those that gave her any notice, the slight turn of a body inwards to let whispers run rampant as she passed, trying desperately to keep her head held high.

Josephine had coached her on the Game, teaching her to play into the courts sentiments and fragile egos (Ellana noted these short lessons were done with a barely hidden glee as Josephine gave her far too much information to even comprehend). But it had all seemed so overwhelming in the thick of it that she eventually gave up after she had yet again insulted a Marquis in what she considered idle, polite conversation.

When she was finally able to extract herself from the ruthless glares and haunting admiration, she felt she had been stripped of any resemblance of a true person. A pawn, a piece moving across a board wider and longer and larger than she could see.

And when she had stood on the balcony overlooking the inner courtyard, savouring the warm breeze and languid music floating from the hall, feeling the weight of the night settling in on her, the fear of too many possibilities and no miracle of foresight, the Commander found her and lifted her from it all. A practiced bow, an extended hand, a smile that made her giddy and delirious—it was all she needed to forget, even if for a moment.

Ellana turns a corner, the warmth burrowed deep in her finally slowing her steps, a swift and comforting sensation pulling her into a place too safe for a world that gave no solace. Exhaustion was finally winning over the elation of his grin marked in her memory, the touch of his hand on her waist that sent cruel pleasure through her, etched into her skin.

She leans back against the wall, bringing her fingers to her neck, pressing her fingertips against her pulse thundering along her skin.

He hadn't kissed her. Not then. But he had lingered there, so close to her, far longer than he should have when the music faded. They had both turned to look at each other and she found herself lost in him, so fully and instantly, searching his dark golden eyes for something, anything, pleading with anguished abandon _kiss me kiss me kiss me please_.

How desperately she had wanted him to. How her body tensed beneath his hands as her mind prayed for him to _move_ , her heart hammering against her chest so hard she _knew_ he felt it. How tired she was of this game they had been playing with each other: Cullen, too amiable in any situation to deduce his true intentions, too enthralling to let go; Ellana, too scared to act upon what she knew they both wanted, too inarticulate to ask. She was _sure_ of his intentions, spending far too much time than she was ready to admit aloud devouring and dissecting every word, every movement, every _Creator forsaken_ flicker of his eyes in her direction. She found herself aggravated at him holding back. Whatever they had between them, it went far beyond a leader and commander, beyond close friends that share battle wounds and tales.

And yet.

She blinks slowly, looking around. This castle was a labyrinth. She found herself repeatedly lost earlier in the evening, taking to groaning in reverent frustration as she whirled on her heels, once again finding herself at a locked door or elaborately decorated dead end. Every ceiling-high mirror, every folded silk drapery, every gilded roaring lions head exactly the same. The guest quarters were no different and Ellana was only slightly positive she had taken the correct path to her room.

There was only one door at the end of this hall, just like her room she had visited earlier in the day: a dark mahogany door imposing itself on the pale blue drapery and soft ivory walls lined in gold trim. The windows along the wall painted a night littered with stars and bright, high moon. Oil lamps hung from sconces between the windows, stark blue shadows shot through with pinpoints of yellow warmth.

The heat that coiled around her centre, the weight of his hand brushing deftly across her waist, drifting for just a moment to her hip, was more than enough to keep her company for the night.

With renewed vigour and an appreciation for the privacy the title of Inquisitor granted her, Ellana enters her room.

At first, it was the mere shock of other _people_ in her room that caused her to pause in the open doorway. She blinked into the fully lit room—she was sure she hadn't left any candles burning when she had left—shapes slowly taking form.

It settles in quick that this isn't _her_ room. What she can't understand is why all these people are _here_.

No one notices her immediately. They were all gathered around something, their backs turned to her and the door, so thoroughly engrossed they hadn't heard a heavy wooden door grating across the floor. 

Then—a groan and sharp laughter. For a moment, fear swells in her throat as she reaches for her dagger strapped to her thigh, hidden beneath her coat. 

Someone cries out—frail, mangled, troubled—and Ellana dashes forward, yanking her dagger from it's sheath, holding it close to her side. She pushes past two women in wide-hipped dresses, ready to strike out, only to skitter to a stop.

She doesn't fully comprehend what she sees in front of her. But there is a tousle of long dark hair across pale blue linens, the sheen of sweat on skin in dim candlelight, the tensing of muscles, a sharp intake of breath, a moan coming from pink lips—

 _Oh_.

“Is that—?”

Ellana's head whips around as someone touches her shoulder. And how wild she must look, her cheeks flushed, brandishing a knife, her breath coming in erratic bursts, blood probably spattered across her brow and dried in her hair. Dorian _had_ told her to wash it off.

“Inquisitor!” a voice calls out. “What a surprise you would join us!”

“What,” Ellana states flatly, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

A few faces had now turned towards her and she now realizes most of the people gathered around the writhing couple below them were not wearing masks. For some reason, this unsettles her more than the smooth, emotionless veneer of jewelled masques of the courts. Especially here, with this—

“What is this?” Ellana demands, to no one in particular, her hushed whisper cracking over her slowly sinking embarrassment. Oh blasted, there was the flush again, crawling up her neck and around her ears, burning deep; but this time it wasn't from the feeling of Cullen's hands on her.

“All in good fun, Herald,” a man beside her says, his sharp green eyes searching her, a smile hiding something much more lurid than his words presented.

Ellana lets her eyes wander, despite wanting to crawl into a hole. There were a few people kneeling by the bed, watching with rapturous delight, their hands reaching out to touch, feel, caress the bodies in front of them. Most were standing, leaning over slightly to comment something appraising and scandalous to their neighbour, their eyes never leaving their entertainment.

She stares down at the man and woman, her eyes dropping to the woman's barely open eyes, her kiss-bruised lips and heavy breasts _heaving_ ; to his lean back, down the curve of his ass as hips thrust into her, slow languid movements.

The man withdraws, sitting back on his heels. The woman writhe her hips into the bed, as if chasing what she had lost, his angular hips, his slick cock _throbbing_. He lifts her gently, easily, falling to his back as she swings her leg over him. He settles back down, folding his arms under his head, watching the woman attentively, his eyes darkened with latent desire. The woman lowers herself back onto his length, a slight moan stuttering out in gasps, her hips already working a steady rhythm, throwing her hair back over her shoulder.

Ellana is flustered in a whole different way than moments before, one that bewilders her, terrifies her, but makes her want to reach out and _touch_.

And the man catches her eye as she's trying to swallow around the lump in her throat, shifting her feet unsteadily, his eyes lidded and pupils blown wide. He smiles at her and _Creators no_ , it's so ridiculously and cruelly familiar. He has short black hair, undercut at the sides. He has soft grey eyes. But oh, he has that tug of the lips that's barely a smirk, a scar that marks him. His tongue darts out, across that scar. He smiles, at her. Heat returning, coiling in her, sinking heavy between her legs but _his_ hands, _his_ smile, _his_ tongue darting out to _taste_ —

Ellana feels as if the world is refusing to swallow her whole and is yet cruel enough to take away the use of her legs. Someone is looking down at her, laughing.

She digs the palms of her hands into her eyes, trying to wrestle down the heat that burns across her veins, threatens to send her hands wandering.

“I'm sorry,” she stammers, “I must have lost my way—”

She stumbles back towards the door, trying to look anywhere but in front of her and finding her eyes drawn to nothing but. She flees the room, hastily shoving her knife back in it's sheath, chased out by the cries of the woman and the encouraging words of the crowd.

Ellana stops running once she's on the other side of the guest quarter, now remembering she had mistaken her directions coming out of the main hall. She quickly enters her room, thankful for the simplicity of a dark silent room, slamming the door shut behind her. She stays there for a minute, her breath coming fast, leaning with her hands against the door.

After the world stops spinning around her, she laughs: short gasps of air followed by reeling giggles. She tries to stifle it behind her hand, overcome with the absurdity of what just happened. She's doubled over, crouching on the floor, laughing into her the hem of her coat, the magnitude of the nights events lifting away with each breath.

// 

Of course, she shares it with Dorian first thing in the morning. He listens with gauged interest while they are harnessing their horses, at first with proper suspect before devolving into utter delight at the depraved affair. But he wasn't as astonished as she had expected him to be.

“Oh, you think this is _news_ to me?” Dorian laughs, the grin of knowing more than others filling his eyes. “We may vehemently hate the other but Tevinter and Orlais are toe-to-toe with the luridness of nobility.”

“You mean, you've been to one of these—” Ellana didn't have the words for it. Well, she did, but she wouldn't dare say them out loud.

“Foray into forbidden pleasures? A gathering of like-minded deviants? A celebration of the wonderment of the human body? A feast of sin for the eyes?”

Ellana is giggling, her cheeks heating. “Dorian,” she warns, glancing around them, wondering if he had been talking loud enough for anyone else to hear.

It's then she catches Cullen's eyes. She expects him to turn away but he holds her gaze; she thinks she may jump out of her own skin with joy. She grins and waves at him from across the stable yard. A smile on his face, pulling that scar up—she _did not_ need that reminder.

“Speaking of a feast for the eyes,” Dorian murmurs, grinning smugly as he tightens his saddle. “That was quite the dance you two shared.”

Ellana ducks her head down, picking up her satchels to strap to her saddle. She busies herself for a minute longer than truly needed. Dorian toes at her knee and she looks up at him. “What?”

“Well?” Dorian demands, his hands on his hips. “What did the dashing Commander do to sweep you off your feet?”

Ellana shrugs, lingering on the sudden memory of him moving— _no_ , gliding, floating—her across the floor, Cullen yet again not giving himself enough credit for the grace and agility he possessed. Her heart leaps in her chest and her breath catches. She shakes her head. “Nothing. We just danced.” She sighs. “It was lovely.”

Dorian purses his lip. “Well, at least you got _some_ action. Since someone seems to be taking _his time_.”

“Quiet your tongue, mage,” Ellana teases, swatting at his arm. 

Dorian dodges her attempts to silence him, mounting his horse and saying in a voice louder than needed, “Maybe you could share your experience with _trusted advisors_.”

Ellana buries her face into her handful of bags, groaning loudly. She peeks out as Dorian's chuckling fades to see Cullen regarding her with a questioning look, standing astutely beside Josephine and Leliana, the women engrossed in a rather heated discussion that involved pointing at shoes.

“Dammit, Dorian,” Ellana mutters as she quickly mounts her horse, shooting Cullen a very unconvincing smile that makes him quirk an eyebrow.

//

“No rest for Thedas' best and brightest,” Dorian chirps as Ellana steps from her tent, waving a pot of something suspicious in front of her.

Ellana _detests_ The Western Approach. Too hot, too much sand in too many places, too many quillbacks, too many varghests. She has no problem taking out roaming Venatori or bandits but those horrid things were _relentless_. At least people were squishy enough to bleed on the first slice.

But, upon her luck, they head straight out after they get back to Skyhold, barely enough time for a hurried war council for a rundown on the events of Halamshiral. They agree to address the unrest following Gaspard's rise to the throne, how best to work with Briala pulling his strings and what to do with Florianne, the Orlesians threatening to leave her at Skyhold's doors, after she comes back from visiting Griffon Wing Keep and clearing out scrounging bandits.

Ellana is mostly perturbed that she had not yet had a chance to talk with Cullen. She could have certainly talked with him on their ride from Val Royeaux but she wanted it be _perfect_. She knew that after that night, the way something sparked between them, how he _had_ pulled her closer—she _knew_ that he would kiss her. And she didn't want it to be in front of anyone else, on a tramped down road, sweat pooling at her temples from a scorching sun, surrounded by grumbling guards and the potent smell of damp horses.

She wants it to be just theirs. She wants him to surrender himself, to not hold back. 

Maybe near a bed.

“I hate how happy you are in the mornings,” Ellana mutters, rubbing her eyes.

Dorian sweeps past her, dishing her a wooden bowl and shoving into her hands. “If I wasn't, I would be drinking. And I can only carry so many flasks of liquor in my bag.” He sets down the pot by the smouldering fire, taking his staff in its place, leaning on it as if the act of giving her food had exhausted him. “At least we move out today. And you can be back on your way to your _blushing_ Commander.”

Ellana shoves her mouth full of what she thinks is porridge. Dorian's cooking leaves a lot to be desired but Ellana appreciated not having to do it herself.

Dorian tutts at her, waggling a finger. “You cannot fool me. I'm not as thick-headed as Cullen.”

“He's not thick-headed!” Ellana snaps.

“It was a term of endearment.”

“Find that hard to believe,” Ellana says as she slumps down onto an extra bedroll used as a makeshift chair. 

Dorian scoffs but his tone is light, affectionate. “I think it's up to you, Ellana. You need to make the first step.”

Ellana chews her food pointedly, wanting to avoid answering this. Dorian stares down at her and she feels like a child caught where she shouldn't be. A woman out of her depths, more like it. Stumbling into bright-lit rooms and forgetting her place.

“Why _haven't_ you?” Dorian asks.

“I don't—” she starts before realizing she maybe doesn't want to reveal too many of insecurities. “What if it's not what he wants?”

“ _Kaffas_ , of course it is!” Dorian exclaims, slamming his staff down into the earth, sending whorls of sand up around his feet. “If you hadn't been clothed at Halamshiral, that dance on the balcony would have turned out much differently.”

“No, I mean... what if he's not ready?”

Dorian's mock indignation softens and he leans back into his staff.

“If he hasn't kissed me yet—something is holding him back. I'm scared to know or ask what. But it's also not my place.” Ellana drops her spoon, letting it clatter in her bowl. She hears shifting bodies, the rustle of a tent flap opening—Iron Bull and Cassandra were awake. She watches their tents warily, restless under Dorian's careful stare.

“Creators, Dorian,” she murmurs as Cassandra's sleep-mused head peeks out of the tent, already glaring at the sand blowing into the opening, “with all he has been through, I don't want to be another mistake for him.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried my best to make it believable everyone would agree to this? So take it with a grain of salt? :)

It's not entirely strange for one of Ellana's advisors to be waiting for her when she arrives back from an expedition. It seems as if they took turns greeting her, a small comfort after a long journey, usually to give her a weary smile and a fair warning of an imminent council meeting. 

What _is_ entirely strange about this one is that it's Josephine, looking alarmingly disgruntled, clutching her tablet firm to her chest. Ellana feels the dread of something unavoidable the moment she sees her. Still, she naively thinks she can escape the endless call for responsibility long enough to at least have a well earned bath. With bubbles. And maybe some whiskey, the good stuff that Varric tries to hoard.

She tries to steer her horse behind Iron Bull, hoping she can sneak behind a group of merchants and an overloaded cart, and find her way through the kitchens and onto the walkways edging the courtyards.

But because nothing ever works Ellana's way, the cart rumbles forward and Josephine catches Ellana bent over her horse, flicking the reins with undue urgency. 

“Oh, Josephine! I didn't see you there!” Ellana calls out in mock surprise, still bent precariously over her horse that was now grazing in circles.

Naturally, the ambassador sees right through her ruse though she is kind enough to save Ellana from a scrutinizing glare and instead approaches her at a clipped pace that makes Ellana tense.

“I wanted to come see you as soon as you got back from the Western Approach,” Josephine says, practically yelling, not waiting until she was close by to start speaking. “You are needed in the War Room.”

Ellana heaves her shoulders and slides down from her saddle. “Yes, Josie, I know we need to discuss Briala and Gaspard but you know what I need _more_?” She pulls out the clip that keeps her braid in place, shaking it lose. Sand showers down around their feet. “A bath. A long, unreasonably hot one.”

Josephine looks down at the small pile of sand and then at Ellana. “I understand, Inquisitor, but this is something we need to discuss immediately.” She glances around them, as if gauging the distance between them and Dorian, who was watching them with reserved interest. “ _Privately_.”

Not much was private in regards to Ellana's life. It's one of the many things she had come to accept when she took on the role of Inquisitor, having her life laid bare for all of Thedas to analyze, scrutinize and tear apart. On the most part, it didn't bother her. She was used to having derision cast her way if she ever dared step out of the safety of her clan's camp, dare to approach a human first, dare to speak out of turn. It had lessened now. Maybe it had to do with the power she held, the authority she wielded, the battles she had won. Though she is mostly sure the unfavourable rhetoric was now reserved for behind closed doors.

Nothing was private for Ellana. So to have Josephine not even mention another word before they were behind the locked war room doors, Leliana and Cullen already in their spots with bleak expressions, was discouraging.

Josephine produces a thick sky-coloured envelope. In long, swooping letters is her name: _Her Worship, Inquisitor Ellana Lavellan_.

Ellana grins. “An invitation? Is someone having a birthday celebration?”

Josephine shakes her head, gesturing towards it with an open hand. “Please, just read it.”

Shrugging, Ellana opens the envelope and pulls out the letter, unfolding it between her fingers. She clears her throat, chancing a look at her advisors, startled to find that none of them were looking directly at her. Ellana refuses to admit that it is any indication of what she is about to read.

The letter was ivory, edged with gold filigree. The same looping handwriting that adorned the front of the envelope lettered the invitation:

_A formal invitation for a night of gratification and infamy_  
_In honour of our esteemed guest_  
_Inquisitor Ellana Lavellan  
_ _Dans-le-lit_

_Host Comte Julien Charbonneau  
Chateau Joneau, Val Chevin_

Josephine is staring expectantly at her, eyes wide, fingers wrapped tightly on her tablet. Leliana looks as impassive as ever. Cullen is fixated on moving small pieces a few inches across the board in meticulous order.

“I'm a guest of honour?” Ellana asks, waving the letter. “For what? I don't know what this is.”

“Well, that's a delicate matter...” Josephine trails off, looking down at the floor.

Leliana huffs. “It is an invitation for you to attend and _participate_ in a intimate dalliance. In front of others, notably.”

The sound of someone slipping and smacking their hand on the table startles Ellana. Cullen apologizes stiffly.

“You've _got_ to be joking,” Ellana scoffs.

“I rarely joke,” Leliana replies.

The silence that falls across the room is deafening. Ellana wants to scream but her mouth isn't working how she wants. She stares down at the invitation in her now shaking hands. It seems Josephine had taken great care to not crumple the lavish parchment or mar the elegant writing but Ellana was not so sure her composure would allow her to treat it with the same respect.

She swallowed around the rising lump in her throat. “This is just a joke. It _has_ to be a joke.”

“It's only one of many, Inquisitor,” Josephine attests in a somber tone. “I have honestly lost count how many came in. Some were quite... suggestive.”

“I found them quite informative,” Leliana muses, a smirk tugging at her lips.

“This is absurd,” Cullen interjects, his voice brittle and intense, filling up the room. Ellana watches him but he's impossible to read, his face set in a hard line, his eyes too focused on the wall behind Josephine. “I don't see why we can't just ignore them. They can't honestly believe we would accept something that puts the Inquisitor in such a compromising position.”

“Interesting choice of words, Commander,” Leliana teases and Cullen bristles.

“The others, yes,” Josephine says. “Most of them were from lower lords and ladies. But this is a direct invitation.”

“Then say no,” Ellana answers firmly.

Josephine shakes her head. Ellana knows the reason the ambassador can't look her in the eyes is because this is a battle they cannot even fathom to fight. Ellana is beginning to wonder if throwing herself into a fade rift was a violation of her responsibilities. 

“It is from Comte Julien Charbonneau. It cannot be ignored. And it would be unwise to decline.”

Leliana gives a curt nod in agreement. Cullen regards the two women with an aggressively blank stare, apparently not as convinced as they are.

“Am I supposed to be intimidated by that?” Ellana asks.

“It is not Julien we need to worry ourselves with—it's his father,” Josephine replies.

“The senior Comte is a very powerful man. He was not always that way,” Leliana informs the group, swaying slightly where she stood. “He was born a merchant's son in Montsimmard and by the time he was in his thirties, had procured many patrons and cemented a title of Comte. But he did not do so by honest means.”

Ellana nods her head, chewing her bottom lip. “Okay. Alright,” she concurs. "I still don't understand.”

“We cannot cross the Charbonneau's.”

“You've said as much,” Ellana snaps. She lets out a strangled laugh, pointing a finger at Josephine and then Leliana, then jabbing at her chest. “We are the _Inquisition_! We defeated Adamant. We brokered peace talks at Halamshiral—”

“That ended in assassination,” Leliana notes.

“ _Not_ the time!” Ellana shouts, her patience completely worn thin. _And in less time than usual_. She drags a hand over her face, hoping the panic in her eyes will go unnoticed. She peers between her fingers to catch Cullen watching her, his hand resting on his sword, his gaze fixed and distant. It aches in a way that Ellana can't grasp.

“The senior Comte was a Chevalier, Ellana,” Josephine explains. “It would be safe to assume he is not happy about the death of his Empress. Especially when you could have prevented it.”

“So, he means to murder me while I'm _naked_?”

“He is passionate but not a fool.” Josephine moves around the table to stand closer to Ellana. “But he can make our trade arrangements within Orlais incredibly difficult, even with the favour from the Emporer.”

Ellana bites down on her tongue to suppress a growing rage. She leans forward, griping her fingers into the rough hewn edges of the table. She does not dare ask for Cullen's opinion, his staunch refusal to meet any of their gazes and his own five finger assault on the war table pieces enough indication of his true thoughts. But oh, how she wishes this was something she could talk to him to. He would know what to say to put her at ease, a gentle hand on her back to guide her to a calmer place. If he could ever look at her again without _this_ being his first thought. If his touch would not be stayed by the ones that would come after his.

“You must go,” Josephine says after a tense moment.

“I will not.”

“There is little choice in the matter,” Leliana replies.

Ellana rounds on Leliana, shaking an accusing finger at her. “ _You_ are the _spymaster_! You're telling me you have nothing on this man to use against him?”

Leliana face darkens, resting her fingertips on the table, regarding Ellana with a sharp smirk. “You are implying I am not doing my job.” 

“I'm _implying_ that something _can_ be done to end this. Is that not what you do, _Spymaster_?” Ellana mimics Leliana's movements, leaning towards her. She sees Cullen watching them with a bewildered stare.

Josephine slams her tablet down on the table between the two women, staring at both of them, annoyance in the hard line of her brow. “The party is in four days time. It's not enough to gather information against the Comte.”

“ _If_ anyone in Orlais was willing to divulge. Even if they did, there would be four others running to tell the Comte of their betrayal,” Leliana says. She leans back up from the table, her shoulders squaring, collecting herself in her calculated, subtle way. Avoiding Ellana's gaze. “We would have no time to retaliate and would risk losing trade routes that are instrumental to the Inquisition.”

“And what if they do mean to kill me?” Ellana is close to shouting, her hands thrown up in the air. “What if this is some sick assassination plot because some old man got his breeches in a twist? Got all offended by the wretched elf who dared to speak out?”

Josephine grimaces, staring down at her tablet. “I doubt that's how the events will play out but we will be sending you with a guest to go into the chateau with you,” she says, with such surety and calmness despite the strain in her voice, her eyes. “You will travel with a full guard, of course, but they will not be allowed into the premises. These gatherings are built around the assurance of privacy.”

 _And a bunch of repressed deviants getting their jollies off_ , Ellana thinks bitterly. _Even I don't get that much and I'm supposed to be saving the world, here._

“Leliana, you would be the best to accompany her,” Josephine says, moving the conversation onward, turning to the spymaster.

Leliana shakes her head, hands still steadfast behind her back. “I must apologize but I will be unable to attend. I have matters of interest here that I cannot leave.” The spymaster was always so frustratingly vague that there was no point in prying further or trying to convince her otherwise.

“Josie, maybe you can work some negotiation trickery and get us out of this mess once we arrive,” Ellana offers, more for herself than for the woman, a faint glimmer of hope still burning on a hastily retreating horizon.

“My hands are tied, Inquisitor,” Josephine says and she does sound genuinely remorseful. “We are expecting a group of nobles from Antiva to arrive with the next few days. We have been anticipating their visit for months and with the party by week's end—I cannot possibly leave.”

There is a pause. A hushed beat fraught with tension, that if it had a sound, it would have ricocheted off the stone walls surrounding them.

Ellana _cannot_ look at him.

“That leaves—”

“No,” is the blunt reply. 

Ellana is staring at a knot in the wood work, wondering if she can get Dorian to shrink her down to the size of ant, let her get trampled on by some unsuspecting servant. She can feel the heat across her cheeks, up her ears, down her neck.

“ _Commander_.”

“I have read the letter. Cassandra or Iron Bull—”

“I would not be sending Iron Bull,” Josephine objects, voice rising.

 _Creators_ , their voices sound so far away. Maybe it was finally happening. Maybe the world was taking her down to it's burning depths to save her from the humiliation. _Sweet relief_.

“I will not be attending a—a _fornication soirée_.

It sounded so ridiculous said like that. But the whole thing was undoubtedly ridiculous. Someone laughs, covering it with a delicate cough—Josephine.

“I have recruits to train, Wardens to attend to, missives to file—” The shadows made from the low sun sends Cullen's wild gestures spanning across the length of the table. Everything was narrowing down and floating away, seeming less real and more in focus.

“She needs an advisor.” Leliana, the voice of reason. “Not a friend—half of which would stab the place down, the other which would participate.”

Cullen lets out a disgruntled growl and Ellana looks at him from the corner of her eye. He's thrown his hands to his sides. He makes no clear indication that he agrees but he makes no motion to protest further. His hands are curling into fists, flexing out, the sound of the supple leather scrunching filling Ellana's head, his fingers long and captivating. Ellana rolls her hips forward, wetting her bottom lip, wondering what the cool leather would feel like against her slick sex—

Ellana jolts when a hand rests on top of her, gasping, turning to see Josephine looking at her. She almost pulls her hand away, wanting to be angry with the ambassador for not thinking this through, for not having a way out, for having failed at this so spectacularly. Her mind flies to the too-bright room behind a door not so familiar, the hungry grinding of bodies, that barely-there smirk with the barely-there scar.

Ellana loosens her fists and let's her breath out in a shuddering huff.

“I need your vocal consent on this, Ellana.” It was rare for Josephine to address her by anything but her title, no matter how she asked, always returning to polite formalities. 

“You realize what you're asking me to do?” Ellana whispers.

Josephine nods, her eyes wide, her fingers curling over Ellana's. “I do. And if there was _any_ other way, I would take it. We have—” She takes a slow breath in. “There are so many people here who need you. Who need access to the roads and merchants we could lose. Ellana, I would not ask this of you if it was not of the utmost necessity.”

Ellana knew she wouldn't. She knew that and it oddly did nothing to lessen the rage and panic climbing up into her chest, a wild ocean beating a steady hum of nerves, doubt and _need_. She looks at Cullen and he's watching her and he gives nothing away. She's sure she's given everything up to this point: to the Inquisition, to her companions, to Thedas—to him. What's one more thing to them, to the world, to her.

Ellana nods. “Okay. Okay.”

Josephine tries to smile reassuringly, patting the top of Ellana's hand, but it seems lost on her. The ambassador pulls away, clearing her throat, changing the subject to writing a reply. Ellana was a bit jealous of Josephine's ability to resort to infinite amounts of work to mask any discomfort. Ellana was more the one to blatantly wallow in her own misery—not that she enjoyed it. 

“Go,” Leliana urges, her tone surprisingly soft. “Have a few drinks.”

“Or a lot,” Cullen grumbles.

Leliana gives him a withering stare. He goes back to hunching over the war table, drumming his fingertips across the table. Ellana forces herself to look away from those void forsaken gloves. 

“Keep up appearances. Do what must be done.” Leliana moves effortlessly, shifting around the table, coming beside Ellana to lean against the table, her back towards Cullen, twisting to face her. “ _Indulge_. Maybe even try to enjoy yourself. You might be surprised.”

Ellana swallows thickly, something sweet and burning, tingling her fingertips. She notices Cullen watching her and she dreads catching an unpleasant stare. But there is something different, something dark and heated in his stare, his honey eyes irresistible, _dangerous_. She thinks. He looks away, a hand rubbing across his neck, before she can know for sure.

Leliana follows Ellana's badly hidden glances, smirking. “The Commander can keep a secret.”

//

Ellana knows she should call for water for a bath. She can feel the sand in all the wrong places, worked into her hair, full up in her boots, grit between her toes and in her ears. But she is also stunned into abject bewilderment, letting her feet lead her towards her chambers. She only offers a meagre wave in Varric's direction when he spots her across the main hall, the dwarf giving her a questioning look but knowing better than to interfere. She walks briskly, her head down, hoping no one else can grab her attention before she reaches the steps to her room.

She had left the war room in a hurry, tripping over her own feet even though her eyes never left the ground, hoping to avoid any further discussion on the impending party and not wanting to look anywhere in Cullen's direction ever again.

She bolts the door behind her before bounding up the steps two at a time, relishing the sting in her chest as she reaches the top steps. Something tangible, something she could press her fingers against, digging them between her ribs, wincing at the sharp pain.

She was not some trembling virgin, afraid of inexperience. Her years in the wilds led to a tenacity unmarred by her time in the Inquisition; try as some may to paint her in a different light, she was not delicate nor was she wanting to be held to an unwavering standard of purity and holiness. Josephine thought it gave her an air of mystery, untouchability and reverence, and paved an elegant path to martyrdom. 

There had been many nights spent under the expanse of stars at intermingled travelling camps, guarded by their aravels and ancestors in their bloodlines, passing bottles of their own wine to taste, drunk on their liquor and youth. So many nights where she fell in hazy-drunk love with the young Dalish boys, letting them be tender with her, teeth dragging across her neck, cupping small soft breasts, guiding fingers to press between her legs, her own hands reaching for warm heat. It was there she learned of the tinder-fire life of young love, of the impracticality of longing. How to take and give but never linger. She never had a chance to linger.

The nature of the forest and the clans made her no stranger to being naked around others. She was not ashamed of her body, was not given the means to be; had bathed with her kin in the rivers of the Marches, the elder women tending to her during her cycles, teaching her how to care for herself, the prayers to Sylaise for blessing and fertility. 

Even to make love was to be open to herself and to everyone else. There was always someone just outside the aravel, someone always just outside the corner, always someone who could happen upon them by accident and overhear.bIt didn't stop her from trying to quiet herself or from blushing when the moans of her friends travelled through the clear nights of the Free Marches.

But this—this was different. She wasn't just to be open, she was being put on _display_. To be judged, to be observed and discussed, to be _enjoyed_ as if she were merely an entrancing piece of art.

And how would the Orlesian's want their art? Soft and compliant? Unbound and defiant? She worried she would have no choice in who she was to lie with, who she was to treat as a lover. She was not so naive now to think that frantic kisses and a quiet shuddering at the hands of another was enough to satisfy the Comte or his guests. They wanted a show—and despite her own screaming head and thundering heart, she wanted to _give them one_.

Ellana falls face down onto her bed, not even bothering to undress or toe off her boots. She buries her face in her pillow.

And then there was Cullen—was he to be there? No, she could surely request for him to stay out of the room. What _if_ someone was trying to murder her? Maybe not the Comte but anyone else who got the invitation. She knows they won't allow her to bring her daggers in with her. But then... then he would have to watch her. Watch her bare herself for another man, to come undone around a perfect stranger.

Ellana moans, soft and strangled. _Creators, this is impossible._

Cullen would have to be there to watch her undress, shed the protective layers, expose her skin, showing the rest of her vallaslin, stretching down her arms and twining around her torso. _That_ made her uneasy than the actual act—her reverence to her gods was something much more sacred to her, not to be shared lightly. He would have to stand back and watch her open herself to someone else, to make herself _wet_ for them, running her hands across her clit until she ached for them, all the while thinking of _him_. He would have to watch her take and _be taken_. 

And what would he do? Become overwhelmed with jealousy and mad desire—or not bed fazed at all, just another participant in the events. Both thoughts made her squirm down into the mattress, skin tingling, already seeking.

Ellana works her hands underneath her, pressing against her aching cunt against her palms and grinding down _just so_. A whimper shudders out of her, a flood of _too good_ relief humming across her.

She had been too long without someone to do this for her. She knew how to work herself just right, just enough to ease the heaviness between her thighs, the tight coil that built up over days and weeks. Some days were tender and slow, letting herself come in quiet shudders, fingers slick in her, curling in time to the circles her thumb made across her clit. Other days were like this—desperate, depraved, trying to find any kind of friction as she moaned, face buried in her pillow.

She _craved_ the touch of another. To be at someone else's disposal. Maybe, for once, not having to go through all of this—the decisions, the battles, the undue reverence, the demand for leadership—on her own. 

Even if it was a stranger—

Even if it was in a room full of people—

Even if Cullen had to _watch_ —

She's moving faster, her breath hitching in her throat. She's grinding down against her palms, shifting and working to find purchase, pressure, relief. She's tense, too tense to find what she needs, too tangled in a mess of apprehension and want. 

Ellana shifts up onto her knees, face still down in the pillow. She slips her fingers underneath her clothes, running through her hairs, slipping between her folds. Her breath is coming out in short gasps, knowing she's close to coming undone. She spreads her legs slightly, rubbing two fingers in frantic circles, pushing up against her aching sex when it's too much.

Her knees begin to tremble. She tenses, scared she won't be able to hold herself up. It's tightening and unravelling, on top of the other, leaving her gasping and flushed. A pulsing heat, rushing over her, her fingers hurried. She's close, at the edge, her body shivering with need—

All of them, watching her. Just him, watching her. She wants them to _see_ her.

She comes, hips jerking forward, a tightly spun release thrumming across her skin, tensing her legs, her arms. Ellana bites her lip, not daring to cry out. For a moment, she can't think of anything else but Cullen's eyes on her, watching her as she unravels under currents of pleasure.

Her breath comes out in long, shaky exhales, the heat ghosting up her face. She collapses back on the bed, her arms tucked underneath her, spent enough to sleep, but something new, raw, demanding taking place of frantic, ridiculous daydreams. She swallows hard, blinking into the setting sun carving shadows across her balcony.

Cullen would have to _watch_ her. 

Ellana knew she _wanted_ him to.

That's how she also knew she was so completely screwed.

//

Ellana spends the next day hiding in her room. Even if her and the advisors had sworn to secrecy under penalty of torturous death Ellana wasn't foolish enough to believe that the nature of her upcoming journey was still being touted as a _diplomatic trip to solidify Orlesian alliances_. She didn't want to pretend that this wasn't happening in front of intrusive nobles, didn't have the energy to ignore the suspicious looks of the soldiers in the sparring ring, knew she would have _no way_ to explain this to her companions without 

Mostly, she was avoiding Cullen.

She wasn't _embarrassed_ about her rather provocative, if private, reaction to the invitation. It was more that she knew she couldn't look at him without thinking, wishing, _hoping_ for all the things that she desperately wanted, to let on that _this_ excited her as much as it terrified her. And she knows she can't look at him without thinking how much she wants it, without the blush creeping across her cheeks. And she knows at her most vulnerable, people can read her like an open book, maybe one that's glowing or yelling obscenities. 

It was never one of her strong suits.

So, she stayed put in her room, immersing herself in the most mundane and mind numbing of tomes, reading each word and absorbing nothing of worth. Trying to fill her mind with anything so the fantasies of Cullen—watching, wanting, _taking_ , undone by jealousy and claiming her in front of all those people—would have no room to take hold. It was a valiant effort.

Ellana was perfectly content staying in her room until the morning she was to meet Cullen, where they had agreed to depart as early as possible to avoid any unwanted attention, where they could hopefully blame sleepiness for their nerves.

Yet the afternoon before her departure, she finds herself at the bottom of the stairs leading to Vivienne's parlour, debating on whether approaching her was the best idea. Grappling with the idea of officially letting out this. With letting someone potentially reading her truest thoughts. If anyone could do it without letting on, it was Vivienne.

When Ellana reaches the top of the stairs, the sun is low enough to bathe the cluster of plush chaises and silver-leaf tables in an inviting glow. Vivienne is setting down a tray set with tea cups, a tea pot and tiered platter of small cakes, rearranging them with nimble fingers. Ellana realizes that Vivienne was probably expecting company. She turns around to retreat back to the safety of her room, her bravery dissolving in the face of actually having to _speak_ it.

“Ah, Ellana,” Vivienne says, a quick smile flashing across her lips. “What a nice surprise.”

Ellana stands at the top of the stairs, a bit ashamed that she came here unannounced, uninvited. “I'm sorry. I should have sent a letter ahead—”

“Nonsense,” Vivienne says, waving a hand in front of her. “I always have time for the Inquisitor. Come, sit.” She motions to the chair across from her, sitting down with practiced grace that intimidated Ellana only slightly.

Ellana nods and takes the few steps to the chair at a fast pace, fighting to gather up some lingering bits of bravery that brought her to Vivienne's stairs, that convinced her this was a good idea.

“Tea?” Vivienne offered, holding a cup and saucer out to Ellana. “Now, what can I help you with, my dear?”

Ellana has the cup to her lips, the steam trailing across her face. She spends a moment there pretending she's drinking, trying to get the words to come out in a way that didn't sound desperate, flustered. Ellana wanted to convey some semblance of control.

“Do you know anything about Julien Charbonneau?”

“Ah, yes. I cannot say I know Julien very well but he was made quite an impression on the courts. He was a bard, you see,” Vivienne adds at Ellana's questioning look. “Why do you ask?”

 _This_ is where the words might not come out just right. Ellana sets down her tea cup, letting it clatter from her shaking hands. _Why_ she is so nervous when her nights have been plagued with ever-more enticing dreams, Ellana can't figure out. Maybe to have someone else know that something that should be regarded as deplorable and obscene was something that electrified her because of it's depravity.

“It's hard to explain, really...”

There's a glint in Vivienne's stare that lets Ellana know she's been read. A lot faster than she was expecting, actually.

“Julien was an excellent bard but not many bard's make an impression because of their weaponry skills,” Vivienne says, leaning back against the couch. “You are quite fortunate to secure yourself an invitation to his _dans-le-lit_.”

Ellana thinks to ask how she knew but she decides she would rather spend the rest of her life naively believing that Vivienne was just incredibly perceptive and had not heard of the invitation over the breakfast table. But, knowing the woman, it was probably both.

“You've been to one?” Ellana asks instead, hoping she can provide some way to prepare.

Vivienne shakes her head. “I may have been powerful and well respected in Orlais, my dear, but my title never granted me the kind of access nobility have. Beside, I never had any desires to attend such events. A little too debauch for my tastes,” Vivienne says with a slight twist to her lips. Ellana feels a twinge of guilt burrow inside her. “Unless the Duke was invited, I had no means of attending.”

“Oh,” Ellana mumbles, both disappointed and relieved that the conversation was ending here.

“That is not to say that I have no idea of the nature of these parties. Despite their elite access they were notorious and discussion of them common, even if it was not always positive. It is hard to keep ones lips sealed in the wake of things so... tantalizing,” Vivienne hinted.

“Well, what did you hear?”

Vivienne smirked at Ellana, folding her hands together on her lap. “I heard you had quite the evening at Halamshiral.”

“Yes, the assassination was very trying—” Ellana started, annoyed that Vivienne wanted to discuss the events of the Winter Palace _now_ , before she noticed the sly look on Vivienne's face, the complacent look one gets when they have the upper hand and no else has noticed it—something that was common with her, Ellana was beginning to realize.

But Ellana notices. 

“He told you,” Ellana hisses.

“Magister Pavus is something of a kindred spirit in that regard,” Vivienne muses, twirling her hand in a graceful gesture. “Like I said, it is hard to keep ones lips sealed.”

Ellana groans, pulling her hand across her face.

“You know what will happen at the Chateau. You know what is to be expected.”

“Vivienne,” Ellana pleads, her voice small. “I'm not very good at this. At The Game.”

Vivienne's eyes widen, sitting up fully to regard Ellana with wry astonishment. “My dear, this transcends The Game. It is something entirely of itself. Do not play by the rules of the court. You play by the rules of young Comte Charbonneau,” Vivienne cautions. “And trust me, breaking his rules will not end as gently as a few insulted men.”

//

“Here,” Cullen says, leaning over in his saddle and passing her a small bundle of folded linen. “I nicked these from the kitchens.”

It's a completely unreasonable time to be awake, the sun only just drenching the sky in vivid oranges and reds across a deep blue sky as they make their way down the mountain path towards Orlais. Ellana had expected a few more hours of sleep, though it was mostly spent pacing in front of her desk, fiddling with ignored reports and missives, repacking her bags, laying wide awake staring at the ceiling and going through every possible scenario. Just to be prepared. But a guard was sent up to her room to fetch her, looking just as irritated as Ellana felt.

She was only mildly sullen that Cullen was lively and giving orders as she trudged across the bailey towards the stables.

Ellana took the bundle in her hands, pulling back the cloth to reveal three small sweet buns, still warm and with fresh glaze. She lets a small whimper escape her lips before shoving one fully into her mouth. Cullen chuckles and Ellana's eyes go wide. She chews quickly, swallowing large chunks of pastry with difficulty.

“Sorry,” she mutters around a half-mouthful. “I forgot to eat this morning.”

“I figured,” Cullen says, a trace of laughter still in his words. “You like to oversleep.”

“It's not oversleeping when you get me up before the sun has even risen.”

Cullen shrugs. “The sun rises later in the mountains. It's already mid-morning in Orlais.”

Ellana mock scoffs but gives him a warm grin, one he easily returns. It calms her, if only for awhile.

They ride in silence for a few more miles, Cullen scanning the roads ahead and bushes beside them for any movement, Ellana eating the rest of the sweet buns in turn but now with a little more control. She wants him to relax just a bit; his constant vigilance was making her begin to think that an offended Orlesian _was_ trying to kill her.

She spent majority of the trip conversing with the soldiers, who's moods had lightened after the sun made a proper appearance and Cullen had allowed them a slight reprieve to fetch fresh water and stretch. It was rather surprising the stories they had to tell of their Commander, ones that made Ellana stifle laughter so as not to draw Cullen's attention, though he was casting increasingly suspicious and worried glances back at them. But one can only talk so long of Cullen's frequent appearances in the barracks in nothing but his breeches, half-asleep but shouting nonsensical orders, before the silence settles back in and Ellana's left to her thoughts.

Ellana mulls over it for far too long, once again trying to choose the best way to phrase what she wanted to say. She even contemplates discussing their dance at the Winter Palace—it's not perfect but a couple of guards might be as close as she'll ever get—but It takes the better part of the day before she pulls back up beside him.

“Cullen,” Ellana begins, tightening her grip on her reins, still not entirely sure of herself. “Can I ask you something?”

“Certainly,” Cullen says, flashing her a smirk. 

She swallows thickly. “I need you to be honest with me.”

This makes Cullen look at her, regard her for a moment, eyes searching. “I will.”

_This is a bad idea, bad idea—if you bring it up he's going to think about it if he hadn't before and you could be wrecking any chance—_

“Are you going think less of me?” she blurts out. “After all this, I mean. And what I have to do.”

He hesitates. He runs a hand across the back of his neck, unintentionally making it obvious how out of his depth he was. Ellana felt like she could at least relate to that. A sign that Ellana was becoming bitterly familiar with. 

“Well, I... uh,” Cullen starts but falters. She watches him clench his jaw, thinking just as hard as she had moments before. “You are in a difficult situation, Ellana. And I don't envy you having to making such a difficult decision. But I know you will handle it with grace, as your usual.”

Ellana would be lying to say she isn't disappointed. Certainly, she had hoped he would say no, he would find no alteration in his views. At least him saying that he could no longer see her after this would have been a more concrete answer, though it would have surely ruined her.

“That's not really an answer, Cullen.”

“No,” Cullen concedes, looking abashed. “I suppose it's not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters all at once! Does that mean I'm done? No, sadly not. About halfway through the third chapter. At least three more to go. Go big or go home, huehuehuehue.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the wait in this update and also the ridiculous length of this chapter. It wasn't supposed to end here but I realize 9000 of purely self indulgent odes to my love for Orlais is kind of much. 
> 
> A lot of things have changed with my direction of this story since I first posted. I will be amending notes to the first two chapters and tags to reflect that. It has taken a rather dark turn, though it's not all so awful, and they still end up together. But please take a read through of the tags before you continue. 
> 
> All my thanks to some wonderful friends on Tumblr for putting up with me fretting about this chapter and the direction the story took: leothelionsaysgrrr, loonyloopy and drysia for enabling my sin bin head canons. You guys rock!
> 
> You also get to meet my trash can son, Julien Charbonneau. If you know me in any capacity on Tumblr, you know that this turd is my everything. You're allowed to hate him a little ;)

They take a steady pace to Val Chevin with not much happening on the almost four day ride. Ellana's meagre attempts at striking up a conversation besides field reports and the importance of training exercises with Cullen did not serve as good bait and she gave up having any meaningful conversation with him by the second night. 

The Commander took to retiring early to bed just as they got the camp fire lit, flasks of whiskey out, tongues warming for exaggerated tales. Even to get themselves to agree regarding what was to happen at the chateau would have put Ellana at ease but Cullen was so predictable in his trademark flush and hasty _let's change the subject_ tone, Ellana admitted quiet defeat to his endearing nature, even if it left her to navigate this mess alone.

The vague conclusion to their conversation on the first day had left a valley of tension in the wake of once amicable friendship. Ellana couldn't help but think she had since destroyed any chances she had at mending whatever it was that they had. Cullen's bizarre determination to remain subtle and distant, though frustratingly polite, only made Ellana clamp down on all her rampaging thoughts running destructive amongst her emotions. She knew Cullen wasn't oblivious nor unkind—she knew he was distancing himself, for what was entirely fair reasons, and yet she found herself trying to grasp desperately to anything she could to pull him back.

_But what if it's not what he wanted._

It keeps her silent. Leaves her with haunting comforts of what could have been. Lets her sleep uneasy in an empty tent, Cullen only a few feet away in his own. Her anguish is childish and distracting—she can only imagine what her companions would say, letting herself become consumed with it, despairing over what can only be described as a ludicrous girlish crush when she had so many other things that should be taking her full attention. She was the _Inquisitor_ ; the world would not halt it's own destruction to allow herself to chase after him like a love-sick youth. 

She chides herself for staring wistfully at him as they set up camp, yet hopes against all hope he would touch her in any other way than temperate respect, his hand on lingering long enough, _never long enough_ , to get her attention. She had begun to believe he could treat her as if she could be something like other than the titles hoisted upon her. Only now she had begun to realize what a selfish burden it was to put on someone. 

Cullen was enough of a gentlemen to remain cordial to her, to respond to her constant meandering questions, even laugh at her bawdy jokes, to help her gather kindling at dusk, to make small talk as they travelled side by side. He was enough of a gentlemen to tell her good night, smiling as she waited with her breath caught in her chest in the waning fire light; enough of a gentlemen to strap down her saddle in the mornings, handing her something to eat without a word on her seething scowl and tangled hair. Enough of a gentlemen to make the let down almost comfortable, almost acceptable, almost gentle enough she didn't notice.

It didn't seem to help at night, when the night sat heavier with the emptiness growing between them. 

On the fourth day, when they are past Val Chevin by mid-morning, Ellana is double checking the directions Josephine had written out for them, having procured it from her bags. They were to pass a few more stately manors on the gravel road, all shrouded in the tall slender trees and immaculate stone walls apparently common in this part of Orlais, before the entrance to the chateau. 

She motions towards an open gate flanked by two stone lion statues, a few miles down the road. They turn through the open gates, coming onto a long path with the Chateau resting at the end. The guards take up the front, leaving Cullen and Ellana to trail behind, their path lined with trees lush in summer blooms. 

Cullen furrows his brow. “I was expecting something more...” He waves a vague hand in front of him before dragging it down the back of his neck. 

Ellana leans back in her saddle, casting an impish smile in Cullen's direction. 

“Salacious?” she offers. “Lacy smalls hanging from the balcony? People so overcome with wanton desire that they are undressed on the front lawn?”

Cullen gives her a strained look though it's taken over by a grin. “Ornate.”

“That, too,” Ellana admits, shrugging.

It was true. Chateau Joneau was rather underwhelming compared to what they had seen in Val Chevin. It was lesser in size than many of the manors they had passed on the roads but it was not modest, considering how many half-timbered houses she had seen across most of Southern Thedas. It was partially covered in climbing vines so thick some of the windows were nearly enclosed by the greenery, it's grey-stone facade lost behind a large tiered fountain trickling water into a base filled with cut flowers. Ellana watches them float as they trot by, the petals gliding along smoothed stone edges, pale yellows and pinks dazzling amongst the sun baked greys and lush greens.

Still, two stories of tall slender windows capped with fretwork iron balconies is impressive enough for Ellana. She had Skyhold, yes, but it's impressiveness was in its solitude, its might, its power, both physical and political. It had its own sharp beauty, a formidable beast in wait, steadfast against bitter winds and impending threats. But the chateau was a beckoning beauty, luring her in with quiet grandeur and honey oak doors. It was almost too inviting, too beautiful, boldly trying to hide an outrageous soul. What it really offered was far more than extravagance in pale gold window dressing and neatly trimmed hedges.

Cullen motions for the guards to halt in formation as they approach the house. A man outfitted in white coat and breeches steps down from the front steps, hands folded behind his back, watching the group with practical indifference.

The man bows slightly and Cullen nods in return. There is a minute of awkward silence as the man looks at them expectantly, Ellana hoping Cullen will take the lead and Cullen not catching onto her pointed stares.

“Uh, we are here for the—” Ellana gestures at the house, “the party. I guess.”

The man tilts his head. He snaps his fingers and a young boy appears from behind a large potted fern at a fast pace. “Rafael will take your horses.”

Ellana dismounts, grabbing her bags hastily from the saddle, tugging them from their straps, and holding them close to her chest, her breath already quickening. Cullen and the guards follow suit, retrieving their bags with ease, allowing themselves a bit more dignity and grace than she had presented.

She was here. In front of the house where she would bare herself to a multitude of strangers. The place that plagued her dreams with anticipation, marred her thoughts with dread. She still wasn't sure if it was the excitement or the nerves that were making her tremble where she stood. All at once, she wanted it to begin and for it to never come.

The four guards that had accompanied them had started to ascend the stairs to the chateau when the man rushes to them, holding out a hand. They stop, a little taken back, looking back at their Commander. Cullen shakes his head. They knew they were accompanying her and the Commander to a political meeting but the details were kept vague, despite the constant probing. 

“You won't be allowed inside, soldiers,” Cullen says.

“There is a guest house for you to stay,” the man announces, casting the soldiers a tested glance. “Or you may stay by the fountain if you so wish.”

“Go,” Cullen orders though his tone is more relaxed than she had ever heard him while addressing his soldiers. “Take a night to rest. I will find you in the morning.”

They leave, if a bit reluctantly, following the boy and the horses. Ellana watches them until they round a corner of clustered trees before looking back to the man, waiting with his hand extended to the door. Ellana takes the first tentative steps before Cullen starts to follow. A gentle push, barely there save for the rustle of leather, against the small of her back, urging her forward.

The man opens the doors to the foyer, bowing again, welcoming them. “Bienvenue au Château Joneau.”

Ellana is frustratingly speechless. The ceiling high windows remind her of Halamshiral but the walls are decidedly more ornate, ivory and pale blue patterned plaster adorned with overwhelming amounts of gold ornaments—depictions of broad, uneven sweeps and flourishes, whimsical sculptures of warriors and maidens, half-dressed women and kneeling men laid atop carvings of flames and leaves. 

The only wall not covered in these forms is filled to the vaulted ceiling with melodramatic paintings and portraits that feel intensely intrusive, imperfectly white eyes staring down at them as they shuffle across the marble floor, their lifeless gazes making the cavernous room feel crowded.

Drapes of pale gold and ivory silk rest amongst the windows, tied back with intricate knotted rope, the fabric resting on the floor in delicate pools of folds and ruffles. The entire room smells of heady lavender, rich jasmine and roses; unfamiliar from the must and woodsmoke of Skyhold’s main hall and yet so strangely inviting for it. 

Directly across from where they entered are two winding staircases, steps stained a deep mahogany and the railings matching the ones on the windows outside, leading to an upper balcony. Underneath the balcony is a set of double-wide doors swung open onto a stone pathway—Ellana can hear echoes of voices beyond the doors and she tries to step back inconspicuously to catch a glimpse of who might be out there.

The man walks over to a mirrored glass buffet, porcelain vases filled to bursting with white peonies, empty glass flutes set beside a silver bucket topped with ice and bottles of champagne. He picks up two small parchment envelopes tied with a silk ribbon. He hands one to Ellana and one to Cullen.

They both stare down at them, unsure of the gift and if they were to say thank you.

“The Comte has given you separate quarters,” the man explains.

“Wait, that's not—” Cullen starts, looking up with a hard stare.

The man gives a curt shake of his head. “It is standard, Monsieur.” The tone implies that there is no need for further discussion of the matter.

Ellana touches Cullen's shoulder, brushing her fingers through the fur across his shoulders, not even thinking of what the interaction might look like, feel like.

“It'll be fine, Cullen. It's just sleeping quarters.”

Cullen doesn't look convinced, staring warily down at her hand. “Are you certain?”

Ellana nods, drawing her hand back, flexing it at her side. “Yes.” She shifts her weight, gathering her bags closer to her. “I will—uh, see you later, then?”

Cullen looks at his feet, his gloved hand tightening around the envelope. Ellana wishes she could just stop talking. Or that Cullen would just stay in his room for the remainder of the day. But no. She doesn't really want that. He needs to protect her—no, _watch_ her.

She wants to tell him right at that moment; she wishes she could be that honest with him, wishes that she hadn't danced with him, wishes he had done more than that. She wishes she didn't know him so well. Wishes she knew him well enough to let him know everything that ran wild in her at that moment. 

“Your room is down that hall, Your Worship,” the man says, startling from her reverie and lingering stare at Cullen. The white gloved hand motions to a hall flanked by two impressive candleholders, almost twice her height. Ellana isn't sure if she is trusting unfamiliar hallways just yet—but with where they were, probably every room was filled with some degree of undress and indulgence. She is almost tempted to just wander, see what else the Comte has to offer.

Instead, she heads down the hall, throwing one more reassuring look at Cullen, who is standing dumbfounded, looking rather diminutive amongst the aggressively ostentatious decor. There is something else there, something that Ellana can't read as well as his various different levels of orderly interactions and heedful concentration. For a moment, she believes it could be a mirror of herself: a troubled, reckless mix of apprehension and need.

Then, again, he looks away before she can really know. Ellana grumbles in frustration, vowing to challenge the Commander to a staring contest after this is all over, so she has proper time to pry out all those inner thoughts he tries so damned hard to keep hidden. If he could look her in the eye at all.

Ellana is relieved to find that a square porcelain placard with her name has been fastened to her door. At least she isn't going to inadvertently stumble upon another naked couple in the throws of passion—she isn't quite ready for that introduction this early in the day.

Ellana felt a bit amiss leaving Cullen to his own devices. She knew his vehement distaste of Orlesians and their games—something like this probably only added tinder to the fire. He was smart enough to bite his tongue in the most trying of situations but she didn't want him becoming so overwhelmed that he refrained from attending all together.

If he wasn't there—if he couldn't see—if she couldn't see _him_ —

What she hoped to achieve from this, she doesn't fully know. She knows with some certainty that she will enjoy the experience considerably _more_ if Cullen witnesses her own wickedness, her gratification in being seen so bare and open. And what that said about her—well, she isn't sure it was anything to be shared, even in a place like this. Especially for someone like her, a saviour so revered, a heretic so abhorred. She refuses to think on the damage that could be done if it ever went beyond the walls of the war room and the chateau. 

She has to trust these strangers will not ruin her, something she's not certain she can do.

Shaking her head, a frown downturning her features and a swirling heat pooling in her, she opens the package in her hand, fishing out the bronze key and unlocks the door.

//

Ellana has thrown open the massive doors leading out to a lavish garden, the garish over abundance that graced the interior of the chateau seemingly spilling out into the wide spread foliage of the yard. She stands just inside the alcove of the large glass doors, leaning against the wall, shielding herself from any possible prying eyes, watching water spurt from yet another fountain—this one showcasing what Ellana assumed was a solider wielding a sword but the only thing he was wearing was a helmet. On his knee.

The luxury of this place was almost entirely lost on her. She knew well the expansive meadows that appeared in gaps in the trees in the Planasene, the stretch of the black-rock shore of the Waking Sea where the swell crashed itself against it in a deafening roar, the reach of trees skyward, where if she stared long enough, the world bent in a curve and the dark leaves would spin. But the sprawling halls and towering windows were just walls, keeping her in, tricking her into the guise of vastness, of splendor.

It was just more barriers, even if she could not see where they ended.

She turns from the window, back to the interior of the room: it's rather narrow, stretching a fair length though it does appear more spacious due to the windows. At the farthest end is a bed, not much larger than the one she has in Skyhold, but framed by a black silk canopy embroidered with metallic thread hanging from the top of ceiling to tie around two brass handles on either side of the gold-trimmed tufted headboard. The walls themselves lacked the dizzying figures of the foyer, much to Ellana's relief, favouring instead a contrasted palette of smoky-grey marble cut through with white fissures inlaid amongst plaster walls the colour of fine sand. When she looks up, the plaster extends across the vaulted ceiling but bares down grotesque gold-masked faces, peering at her from their niches in the slanted walls.

She stares up at them for a moment, mimicking their expressions, hoping somewhere faraway the artist who carved these atrocious things feels a fleeting insult.

The rest of the room is laid out with meticulous care, an area with plush couches and silver-leafed tables arranged into precise informality separated from what seemed to be a dressing area, defined by a looking-glasses and ornate floral rug with a wing back chair opposite. Between the different sections are folded dressing screens, painted with muted pastoral scenes that that seem entirely unbefitting of the situation when first looked at. Upon further inspection, they reveal a staggering array of naked bodies engaged in, as Cullen so aptly put it, _fornication._

It's here that Ellana is standing—face inches from studying a scene of a woman with her head thrown back in wild pleasure and hands grasping at her generous breasts, a man with a bewildering amount of defined musculature nestled between her thighs—when she hears a knock at her door.

Ellana startles, a frightened yelp escaping her lips, nearly pushing the screen over in her haste to turn around. She stares at the door as if it had personally caught her in the act, waiting for it to open, her heart caught in her throat. The knock comes again after a moment, a little more assertive, and Ellana welcomes them in with a shaking voice. She is more used to messengers making their presence known by barging up the stairs or by Cole just appearing on her desk or Dorian making himself at home while she was gone.

A slight, middle-aged woman—a Dalish, and Ellana's heart skitters to a halt with joy—enters the room, one side of a large metal tub following her, the other end brought up by another servant. Ellana rushes over to help close the door but the woman merely shakes her head. She gives Ellana a pleasant smile before side-stepping her and walking to the dressing partition of the room, setting the tub on the rug. She nods her thanks at the other man, who bows at Ellana and walks out of the room. 

Ellana is almost beside herself with excitement, clenching her fists behind her back, relief flooding out her nerves, able to forget her conflict of _yesnoyesno_ that had been coursing through her all day, even if just for a moment. Someone she could _speak_ to. Someone who she could unravel her trepidation and uncertainty, not just from the last few days, but all the way back to the Conclave and the aching absence of home, in the language that was every part of her as her breath.

“Aneth ara, falon,” Ellana said, her voice light with giddiness.

“I don't speak it, miss.” The woman gives her a repentant look before bending back down to her tub.

Ellana falters. “Oh—my apologies,” she mumbles, wringing her hands together in front of her.

The woman shrugs. “It's fine.” Her voice lilts with the Orlesian tongue but it holds back, as if it's a sound that doesn't fit well in her mouth. “I was born here. The language was lost with my mother, the little she remembered from her youth.”

Ellana feels a world apart from the woman before her. The woman filling her wash tub with buckets from a tap hidden behind an armoire. The woman who shares the same bloodlines, the same ancestors, the same right to freedom as she does, as all of them do. And, yet, here she stood, by some happenstance, some blessing of false divine intervention, able to demand a woman who could easily be her sister to fill her bath.

“What's your name?” Ellana asks, swallowing the guilt that threatens to weaken her further.

“Arla,” the woman answers.

“Home,” Ellana whispers.

Arla laughs, sighs. “Yes, my mame had enough sentiment for the both of us.”

Ellana is lost for words. As hard as it was to make a life in the wilderness, to always outstep the offended humans and to still maintain trade negotiations with weary townsfolk breathing down their necks, gratitude was always instilled in her for the life she lived—she had known of the city elves, the dissolving clans forced into alienages and slavery to keep food on their family’s tables, even as a child. She refused to have Dalish servants at Skyhold for that reason, feeling immensely guilty for the vast opportunities bestowed on her, knowing she could not share the wealth and feeling even the more worse for it.

Arla finishes filling the tub in silence, humming under her breath, seemingly unfazed by the imbalance between them. But it was not a normal day for Ellana if she did not fret over something completely out of her control.

“Come.” Arla beckons towards the tub. “In for a wash, now.”

Ellana feels the heat on her cheeks. Arla places her hands on her hips, an impatient glare on her face.

“For what's to happen in a few hours time, might as well get comfortable undressing in front of strangers.”

Ellana concedes that she has a point and begins to undo the clasps on her scout jacket, pulling at the laces of her breeches and boots. She undresses quickly, feeling scrutinized under Arla's stare, bunching her clothes into a pile on the polished floor. She stares down at herself, her freckled pale skin a stark contrast against the dark etched floor; she has the sudden urge to wrap her arms around herself, to cover her small round breasts, the curl of dark hair peeking out between her pressed together thighs.

Her own gaze traces the bold lines of the vallaslin that contours her most defined angles, frames the planes of scarred skin, tapering off into fine points down her forearms and thighs. Two lines that trail over her collarbones, curve around her breasts, taper to fine points at her navel where an old wound from years ago, paled to the colour of her flesh, mars her skin in a deep gouge. Her hand goes there first.

She can feel Arla's eyes on her, following the same path Ellana's did.

“In,” Arla repeats, voice tight, jerking her head to the tub.

Ellana places a tentative hand in the water, pleasantly surprised to find it a glorious heat. Just right for soaking. Ellana gets in, settling down into the tub as Arla walks around the tub. For a moment, Ellana's heart constricts and she curses her own sentimentality—she just let a stranger in a country of trained assassins and political unrest into her room. Completely unarmed, completely at the disposition of what could potentially be a bard hired by a disgruntled noble. How did she know for sure Arla was even a servant in the chateau?

She casts a furtive glance at her pile of clothes, where her daggers were jumbled up in her breeches, judging how fast she could jump from the tub and grab them.

Arla turns her back, opening a top drawer of the nearby dresser. Ellana stands, water spilling down around her in a torrent, her body trembling at the sudden chill. She's ready to pounce, maybe strangle the woman with her bare hands if she really had to, when Arla turns back around, a small basket with flower petals, corked vials filled with coloured bath salts, glass droppers with deep amber oils, in her hand. She looks rather shocked and Ellana doesn't blame her—Ellana was leaning over the tub, fingers stretching to try reach her daggers.

“Oh,” both the women say at the same time.

Ellana snaps her hand back to her side, standing up fully. She continues to stand, fidgeting, hoping it would seem natural for her to be standing stark-naked in the middle of the tub, starting to shiver, if she just remains there.

Arla smirks. “I'd sit if I were you, before the water cools.”

Ellana mumbles an onerous agreement, sliding back into the tub. Arla uncorks the vials, pouring their contents into the water in nimble flourishes. She shows Ellana the basket she had brought down, letting her rummage through; letting her smell the oils in their bottles, tells her to choose a few she likes best. Ellana picks one that smells of sweet mint, another that reminds her of morning frost and fresh rains in the Planasene, another that is faintly familiar—a bitter and saccharine citrus that she breathes in a little too deeply.

Arla squeezes a few drops from each bottle into the water before setting the basket aside. She gives a gentle push on Ellana's shoulders so she is laid back against the tub, submerged to her shoulders. Arla sits kneels behind her, placing her hands on either side of Ellana's head and even as her breath catches in her throat, she tries her best trust.

Arla smiles at her, gathering Ellana's hair in her hands, working at the ties and braids that Ellana usually wore, laying the loose bits around her in the water. She cups her hands, letting the water caught there pour over the back of Ellana's head.

She tenses when the woman begins working the pads of her fingers across her scalp in slow, pressing circles. It takes her a few moments to relax, Arla back to humming to fill the quiet, until she is sinking further into the water, into the familiar and almost familiar smells of the oils wafting up around her, languidly dragging her fingers across the surface, pinching the flower petals that floated in her path.

“Do you do this for all his guests?” Ellana asks after some time.

Arla brushes that wet strays from Ellana's forehead, carding her fingers through the length of her hair. “Only the important ones.”

Ellana fidgets, unease settling in between the stillness, a calmness unfelt so often for her. She dips her head back, looks at Arla, who's staring at her with sharp green eyes.

“Are there many... important ones?”

“In some sense, yes,” Arla answers after a moment. “But this one—you, have him excited. It's all he's talked about.”

Dread coils in her chest but there is a tingle across her skin, giving her goosebumps that can't be blamed on the early evening breeze. She watches the beginnings of dusk cast long shadows across the floor, the rustle of the curtains raising a haze of dustlight suspended in pale beams of light. The caution she is holding on to is hanging precariously. When her resolve dissipates, whether she cowers behind her hesitation and uncertainty or gives herself over to the eager longing that's been lifting butterflies in her, she isn't sure.

She would find out, just like everyone else, at the moment she was meant to decide.

“What is he like? The Comte, I mean.” She needs to be distracted, far more than the petals gathering at her knees were allowing.

“He likes to be entertained,” Arla says with a strained smile, “and he is all at once the easiest and most difficult man to impress.”

Ellana glances back at her, her mouth open in a half-formed question, but Arla pushes Ellana's head back with the tip of her finger and continues running her fingers through her hair, combing the knots out with delicate hands.

“What happens at these parties?” Ellana questions. Her one accidental intrusion was not enough to go on, despite what Vivenne may have thought. It was like going into battle with a dragon when all you had seen were the bones of its ancestors in the sand. “I know you've probably never been to one... but you must know what goes on.”

Arla shrugs as she twists Ellana's hair, wringing out the water, letting it cascade over the edge of the tub. Ellana turns her head fully this time to watch her.

“Julien spent years in the courts, training as a bard,” Arla begins, her voice measured, words careful. “He played The Game well. But this—this is _his_. And he does not like it when someone beats him at his own game.”

It sounds too similar to what Vivienne had told her back at Skyhold. Ellana decides with much reluctance that it's something she cannot ignore, that she would have to relearn the rules to this ridiculous game.

_As if you are not taking full advantage of the situation._

Ellana doesn't think the worry on her face would be so apparent but Arla leans forward, resting a hand at the back of her head, brushing her thumb behind her ear, her face softening with concern. Ellana tenses at the intimacy of the touch, uncertain what it meant. Arla's hand falls away just as quickly as it had found it's way there.

“Don't worry, Your Worship,” she says, wiping her damp hands on her apron. “He already has a keen eye for you. And I don't think it's entirely because of your position of power.”

“What do you mean?”

Arla reaches up to tug at the tip of her ear before looking to her feet. The first instance of aversion she had shown since she had stepped into the room. Ellana reaches up to touch her own ear, almost forgetting the subtle tremor it sent down her back. It was worse when it was another's touch, sending her nerves alight like fire, knees grow weak, skin raw and tender and wanting. 

A quiet part of her hopes Cullen can see her that bare, that _shameless._

The rest of her balks, offended and disgusted, at the idea that this Comte invited her here solely _because_ of it. 

“Oh.”

“Don’t think that he is a cruel man,” Arla says quickly, genuine distress widening her eyes. “He could have easily thrown me out when he moved in. He is kind to me, truly.”

Ellana chews the inside of lip, watching Arla with diminishing suspicion. If she was to come through this night mostly unscathed, she would have to take the woman’s word as truth. 

“He has a reputation, yes,” Arla explains, “but for indulgence, not immorality.”

Arla hooks an arm around her elbow and pulls her to stand. Ellana's legs had cramped in the tub and she struggles to keep her balance. Arla goes back the dresser, pulling out a towel from a bottom drawer, unfurling it to wrap around Ellana, tucking it securely underneath her arm. She holds out a hand that Ellana takes to step gingerly out of the tub, the floor much more precarious now that it was covered in a thin sheen of bath water and oils.

“You're not here for him, remember that,” Arla tells her with gentle assurance. 

“I'm not?” 

Ellana is dazed, watching Arla move gracefully around the room, gathering Ellana's bundle of clothes from the floor, folding them as she steps around the furniture with eyes already looking for another task to attend. Ellana wonders how many times she had stood in this same room, bathing some frightened (or impatient) guest, how many times she had picked their clothes from the floor, touched a stranger’s body with the knowledge of what they were to do.

Ellana wonders what Arla thought of them. What she thinks of her.

“You may be his guest but you are not _his_.”

Ellana shuffles her feet, running her hands through her hair, letting them come to rest on her face, pressing her fingers into her cheeks. “I don't know why I came here.”

Arla smiles at her, then, as if she truly understands her. “The same reason everyone else comes here—to indulge in what they normally cannot.”

It's a little too on the nose, a little too astute, for Ellana to just brush it off. But she can't think of word to say to the woman without completely falling apart. 

Arla stares at her a moment, her features thinning into ordered complacency. “Now, I think we shall leave your hair down, yes? It frames your face so beautifully.”

Ellana wraps a wet tendril of her dark hair around her finger, staring at it thoughtfully, wondering how much her hair could hide that she was not ready to have seen.

//

Arla leaves her wrapped in a pearl white silk housecoat and with a gentle squeeze of her hand. Ellana feels exhausted by just the thought of the affair now, ready to declare defeat and trudge back to Skyhold and deal with the fall-out there. If it meant not having to come to proper terms with what she was expected to do, with poise and vaguely threatening surety, and what she _desired_ to, without reservations and without fear of rejection, she was fine with that; she did not want to have to make that decision, between her duties and her happiness, again. Just this one time. 

Barely a moment passed before a butler, one different than the man who greeted her and Cullen at the door, enters the room with the same swift knock at the door, though h does not wait for Ellana's call. He is carrying a large platter, nearly the length of his fully outstretched arms and double the width, filled with all manner of food and drink.

She's following the man before she can think on it, her feet leading her away from the relative safety of the corner of the dressing screen, spurred on by a sickly grumbling in her stomach. She was rather hungry, having not eaten since the morning in Val Chevin.

The man bows, his arm outstretched to display the platter. “Savourer, ma dame.”

Ellana nods, not even bothering to attempt a phrase with the abysmal understanding she has of Orlesian. Josephine tried her best to instruct but some things were not meant to be. Ellana was too terrified to insult a butler in this ridiculous country. 

Once the door is shut behind the butler, Ellana takes a seat across from the platter, her hands resting on her knees. Some things she recognized from her travels with her clan, trading in the Free Marches: raw oysters only found near the coast, nestled amongst ice in a porcelain bowl, still carrying the strong smell of briny sea; a crystalline jar filled with brilliant amber honey, the same as she had seen at the borders of Nevarra, treasured and fought over when they were allowed to buy a jar to share amongst themselves; deep red peppers from Antiva sliced into thin ribbons and laid across a bed of crumbled white cheese.

Chocolate—a rare treat seen in Skyhold. The ones on the tray are considerably more fancy than the thin, bittersweet and slightly spicy pieces Josephine had shared with Ellana in secret: these ones were covered in delicate sugared flower petals, shimmery spatters of what Ellana thought was actual gold, iridescent emerald pearls, extravagant and delicate curls of white placed atop the tiny morsels. 

Naturally, Orlais would try to out best a country in sweets.

The rest of the tray offers pomegranates cracked open to reveal brilliant red gems, a generous heaping of plump strawberries and dark red cherries, fresh figs sliced open to crimson flesh and a delicate smell of earthy sweetness. Tucked into the back of the tray was a bottle of wine and two glasses. 

Ellana is picking her way through the tray when there is another knock at the door. Softer. For a moment she thinks it could be Cullen, the hesitation of intrusion giving her hope, before realizing he would not be caught walking around the chateau on his own. She slumps back into the chair, not sure if she wanted any more servants around her for the rest of the day. 

The door opens just enough for the visitor to speak clearly: “Inquisitor? It is Julien Charbonneau.”

She stands, nearly knocking the tray over. She reaches to catch it, her hands shaking, a lump rising in her throat. “Come in,” she calls, the flutter of nerves and jarring thrill of dread thudding against her ribs.

The door creaks open even further and Ellana closes her eyes, taking a deep breath, preparing herself for whatever she was to witness or endure. When she hears footsteps across the floor, pausing for just a moment, she dares to open her eyes. 

It is curious how gorgeous he is—she expects someone older, a face furrowed with years betraying too much drink and graceless aging, body sagging with useless luxury, eyes bright with a craving for youth he had surely wasted.

Julien Charbonneau is entirely different, entirely captivating. It's how he enters the room, demanding the attention of even the air residing in it, bending the will to him and him only. He walks in with ferocity, knowledge that he commands without effort and he is entirely pleased with it. A clean shaven, sharp jaw that clenches with a calculated grin, sculpted cheekbones framing deep set eyes, full rich lips coloured with a faint red tint, leaving his fair complexion radiant.

He is not perfect, he cannot be, but he is astonishing in a peculiar way that makes Ellana's stomach turn with an unpleasant lurch.

He watches her for far longer than she finds necessary. His gaze, peering at her from underneath a well manicured brow, is caught somewhere between admiration and hunger. He runs a hand down the lapels of his coat, ocean-blue stitched with silver paisley swirls cut to just below his hips to accentuate a tapered frame, the lapels and breast pockets lined in dark blue, before breaking their gaze to lay the box in his arms down on the ottoman beside him.

She can feel his eyes wander across her, as if assessing her, drinking her in, learning every part of her that she does not want to reveal, not to him.

“Sensational,” he whispers, his voice thick with the Orlesian tongue; not lilting like she was used to, the sharp enunciation of common words grating, but warm and soothing.

Ellana threads her fingers together, pressing into her knuckles so they ached, watching her bare feet shift across the floor, toes curling to feel that harsh brush of stone.

“I was unable to attend the Empress's ball so I've only heard tales of your beauty.” He crosses the short space between them, reaching to her hand, taking it in his own, adorned with thin silverite bands and pewter rings inlaid with gems, with a pressure that makes her hiss, and brings it to his lips, brushing those outrageous lips across her knuckles. “I must say the tales of your beauty do you no true justice, mon ami.”

Ellana yanks her hand from his grasp, rubbing her palm down the side of her coat. Julien is hardly fazed, flashing her a smile before turning to the tray the butler had laid out only a few minutes before, plucking a strawberry from the small pile and taking a delicate bite. Ellana watches him with stunned amusement—every movement was an act, an elaborate form of entertainment played out in every day irrelevance. It must be exhausting but it is Orlais. If there was an honest part to this man, he was not about to give it up willingly.

“I hope you have been comfortable here, Inquisitor. I must say that this day has been quite looked forward to by my closest companions.”

Ellana bristles but says nothing. She doesn't know if her words would hold any worth with a man who obviously enjoyed the sound of his own far too much.

Julien tilts his head, an exaggeration of actual confusion, eyes revealing a man not even remotely interested in her reasons. “Does she not speak? How odd.”

“I speak,” Ellana retorts, her voice cracking, but still possessing the nerve and tenacity of a woman who called herself leader. Or so she hopes.

Julien laughs, a sound wicked and hollow enough that it makes Ellana wince.

“Excellent,” he replies with a small grin and wagging finger. “I do not like my participants quiet.” He finishes the strawberry, sucking at the red stains on his fingers. 

Ellana watches with such fascination that her lips part without her thinking. Julien grimaces, shaking his head.

“Do close your mouth, mon cher. It is very unbecoming of a woman of your stature.”

Ellana snaps her gaze to him, fixing a furious glare in his direction. What once was captivating, even beautiful, was swiftly becoming unsightly on him, as if his features were twisting in front of her eyes, mangled by the words that slithered like snakes from his lips.

He knew the weight of his words, his eyes only narrowed enough to provoke her into a game he knew was beyond her control. For a moment, Ellana hesitates—her blunders at the Winter Palace had probably spread across the rest of Orlais; what Josephine would write as a well-timed intervention on the Inquisition's behalf would obviously be seen as the missteps of a Dalish marauding as the Herald, bloody boot prints scattered across the palace floors.

But it was not the first time blood had spilled at her hands, nor would it be the last. And to have that blood soaking the earth her people should have walked—while it might not have been her hand on the blade, there was retribution in the fact that she had the knowledge to stop it.

If she could not lead this dance, she would gladly follow, step for step.

Ellana straightens her shoulders, raising her brow. “You would speak to the Inquisitor that way?”

Julien's mouth twitches—but not in annoyance. “ _Non_.” He bows, hand spread across his chest. “My apologies, Your Worship. I forgot my place.”

He sits down at the chair across from where she had been seated moments before, taking to watching her again, turning one of the many rings on his fingers in slow rotations. She watches back, knowing she will find nothing but refusing to allow him the satisfaction of making her flinch, no matter how much she wants to shrink from those sharp blue eyes. 

Shouts from the garden draws her attention away, making her head turn. It's not yet fully night but the lamps hanging from the ivy covered trellises are already lit to a dull glow, marking the path across the courtyard, cutting through the approaching dark. She finds herself peering out the window, searching for the source of the noises, watching the shadows that move across the floor in brief glimpses. She felt an uneasiness come over her--the shadows of real people she would soon face, some of which would be watching her, one that might undressing with her. 

Ellana swallows heavily around the lump forming in her throat, hoping that Julien does not notice her tense shoulders and knowing he most certainly does. 

“The party has already started,” Julien muses, leaning back against the chair, resting his cheek against his hand. “It's always the beginning of the night that is most captivating.”

He wants to lead her somewhere, into a battle of words which she has no preparation for. Ellana crosses her arms across her chest, fitting a sly grin to her face that was entirely lost in the dismay in her eyes. The one thing Josephine had told her that stuck in their many hours talking of the court politics: _if you find yourself losing your footing, change the path._

“You are quite fortunate to have such generous friends, Comte,” Ellana remarks, maybe too loudly, but the brevity in her voice is honest. “This Chateau is not named after your family.”

The man’s features shift, almost unnoticed if it wasn't for the way he stilled in turning the bands on his fingers, the muscle in his jaw that jumped as he licked his lips. Ellana bites her tongue to hide a smirk.

“ _Oui_ , this belongs to Erec,” Julien replies, sweeping a leisurely hand around the room. He leans forward, taking a glass from the tray, pulling the protruding cork from the bottle of wine out with his teeth with a too satisfying pop. “He and the Marquisse don't spend much time out here, so he allows me living quarters here.”

Julien fills the glass, offering it to her. Ellana doesn't reach for it, tightening her grip on her forearms, hunching her shoulders. The agitated sigh that comes from Julien's lips twists his fine features. He swallows half the glass in one mouthful, making a show of presenting the obviously not poisoned drink.

“Erec?” Ellana asks, taking the next glass he hands her, taking a slow drink and suppresses a shiver at the bitterness. “I didn't know you could address higher nobles by their first names.”

“The Marquis is much more than a friend.”

There is a pause, another shout cutting across the garden, trickling into the silence in the room, where Julien sips his wine and Ellana stares into her glass.

“He's married.”

Julien's eyes widen. “For a woman so immersed in politics, you would think this would not surprise you.”

“My politics are much more immediate than the affairs of nobles,” Ellana informs him curtly.

“I suppose you are right,” Julien mutters. He's staring at the ceiling, eyes on one of those hideous faces. “But it would be a benefit to listen. Watch.” He looks back down. “ _Learn_. You may think us frivolous but we are all playing the Game, are we not? Because what is it besides a glorification of the truth of politics?”

Julien stands suddenly, causing Ellana to stumble back, her knees sore from having stood with such tension. He steps close to her, as if he means to overtake her, and she's ready to drop her glass when he steps around her, reaching down to the ottoman for the box he had carried in. 

He knew exactly what he was doing, stringing Ellana along, and she was falling in line with his every step. She took a deep, shuddering breath, exhaling sharply through her nose, before turning to watch Julien pull at the fat ribbon holding the lid on the box. 

“The Marquis was my patron and trainer,” Julien explains as he tugs the ribbon and it comes loose with a hushed swish. “We spent much time together. It is only natural for something to blossom in such close quarters.” He stands in quiet contemplation for a moment, looking at Ellana. “You are quite close with your advisors, are you not? Many hours spent in heated discussion?”

Ellana turns her head, lets her eyes flicker down to the floor. She can hear the Orlesian’s sated amusement in the faint click of his tongue. She clenches her fists around the glass.

“What of your guest--the Commander? You are quite close, _oui_?”

Ellana can't look him, though she should, show him his words hold no weight on her, but she knows the distress on her face, her clenched jaw and reddening ears, would impart more than avoiding his gaze. 

“Does the Marquisse object?” Ellana asks. 

“She has no choice,” Julien says with disappointment, shrugging. “Clemence is a woman of power, like yourself, not a woman of love. Much _unlike_ yourself.” He sighs as he pulls the lid off, looking down at the contents of the box. “What a thing to be both.”

The words of a man who speaks them like venom should not sound so honeyed but Ellana cannot stop the rush of brazen vanity that briefly crowds out her disgust of him. 

“Now, shall we get dressed?” Julien says, clasping his hands together, with what seems a genuine grin of delight on his face. “The party has already started and I hate to keep guests waiting.” He flips his hand towards her. “Well, _I_ hate waiting.”

Ellana shakes her head, not needing to be beholden to this man with gifts. She knew the nature of gifts amongst nobles all too well. “I brought my own clothes.”

“ _Mon cher_ ,” Julien remarks, a flippant amusement sweetening his words, “it is tradition for the couple to wear matching outfits.”

He has finally pulled what lies in the box out: a billowing dress, layers of muted fabric falling in slow motion as he flicks it up and over his arm, as if the fabric were caught heavy in the air. She's watching him carry the garment over to the dressing screen, draping it with gentle care over the top of the partition, when the words settle on her in rapid and troubling succession. 

She can almost hear the triumph in his musical laugh when she blurts out, “Couple—what are you--” 

“It's quite alright,” Julien interrupts her, waving his hands in front of his face. “He happens to fit the outfit I had for the other suitor—such a pity, he was rather enamoured with you. I must commend your taste in men.” He wrinkles his nose, as if a foul smell just entered the room. “A little _too_ Ferelden for my taste but I have had worse.”

Ellana chances a step forward, twisting her hands into the front of her robes. “Who do you mean, _he_?” 

But she knows. And, oh, how she wishes she did not. 

“I'm sorry,” Julien says flatly, his eyes going wide in surprise. Ellana can't tell if it's genuine and in this moment, for reasons both beyond and completely in her control, she knows she may very well lose this game. “I thought when your ambassador sent word that you could be accompanied by your Commander, it had meant…” He let the words hang in the air with a smirk pulling at his lips. “Well, I never turn away extra hands and mouths.”

It's startling, the quiet force of realization that overcomes her at his words, pushes against her racing heart, threatening to collapse her, a sound like howling rushing in her head. Her stomach clenches and her head spins and the Comte keeps talking, his voice far away and far too loud. 

“It has the chateau in quite a titter. Many of his fans from the ball are also attending. They do hope he stops to say hello.” Julien sighs. “The _Commander_.” The way he says it, as if he's tasting it, makes her want to throttle him, if only her body would agree with her thundering heart to _move_.

“I do like the sound of that,” Julien muses, tilting his head to regard her. “Is he good at it, _commanding_?”

She says nothing, her tongue thick and mouth dry. 

“I've heard of a dance at the Winter Palace. Quite romantic, from what I've been told.” 

He watches her a moment before flicking his hands in her direction. She stands resolutely in her spot, unwilling to bend. Unwilling to admit that it wasn't the misery of the sudden realization that was rendering her incapable of speaking, but the elation that it would be _Cullen_ and the distant concern lurching her forward that barely had time to take hold before she shoved it aside. 

She wants this, _oh_ how she wants this, and how she despises herself for wanting it _this much_. 

“Now, behind the screen so we may dress you.”

She has already lost the game, Julien dealing her a card that destroyed any chance she had at besting him by feigning disinterest and devotion to her duties. She had intended to enjoy whatever this was, with whoever had been set before her, knowing with relief and barely hidden glee that Cullen was watching and _craving_ the knowledge of his thoughts, the heat of his hazard glances, the curve of his gloved fingers in tight fists. 

But this--she had not anticipated and the man before her knew this. He had no hand in Cullen being the one to accompany her but she knew with almost abject regard that he had intended to put her in this position all along, to have this dalliance be with someone she knew. To allow herself the pretence of calm assurance only to be presented with an unavoidable arrangement in the final hour, when it was all but too late to turn the invitation down. 

It was her persistent unfortunate luck that it had to be _him_.

Ellana takes measured steps behind the screen, untying the belt on her robe, letting it fall from her shoulders with a shrug. She is not ashamed when Julien comes around the other side, tugging the dress from its resting place, taking it in his arms to undo the delicate clasps at the back. He holds the dress out in front of her, guiding the bodice through her outstretched arms, trailing his fingers over her shoulders as he circles to her back to do up the clasps. It seems a simple garment, which amuses her as much as it astonishes her, the clasps being the only thing holding the dress to her, the full layers of the skirt covering the slit in the back-- _easier to undress_ , she realizes, her hands running shakily down her thighs. 

Julien presses his fingers to her lower back, giving her a gentle nudge to walk out from the partition and towards the looking-glass. 

The dress is stunning in its simplicity, subtle in its extravagance, and if it were not for the intricately stitched embroidered flowers, placed on branches of sequin and pearls, stretching up from where the slim fit of the bodice cut off at her waist and shifted down into layers of muted navy and lilac tulle, her chest would be completely bare. The sheer fabric capped at her shoulders allows her vallaslin to show through, the ivory button flowers covering just enough of her to allow some modicum of decency but left nothing for the imagination to fill in--it was sensual and refined, so captivating that Ellana actually turns on the spot, stretching her neck to see all sides of her, ignoring the pleased smirk on the Comte’s face. 

“Nothing but the _best_ for our Inquisitor.”

He brushes her hair back to fall behind her shoulders, tucking the soft waves around her ears, letting his hands trail back up her neck, pausing at her jaw, stretching his fingers out to push her chin up, tilting her head back. He watches her in the mirror and Ellana doesn't dare break her gaze with him. 

Ellana will give herself over to the heat and need and fury that is rushing through her, trembling across her nerves making her shiver, maybe far more than Julien expects her to, but she will not give him the satisfaction of knowing that. Letting him win at his own game for the sake of Inquisition did not mean she could not match him step for step.

Julien reaches back into the box that held the dress, bringing out a black mask trimmed in lace. He lets the strings fall as he fits it to her face, covering her eyes and nose, dragging his fingers across the tips of her ears as he ties it behind her head, smiling at the shudder she could not suppress. 

Turning towards the dresser, he opens the top drawer, cupping something in his hands, setting it down in front of him. He dips the tip of his finger in a jar much like an inkwell but instead of black ink, his nail and skin come back dripping in dark red, like blood. How fitting. 

He stands in front of her now, stained finger pressed to her closed mouth. He spreads it across her lips, letting his finger drag her lips down.

“Now, mon cher. Are you ready to perform?”

How she wishes she could spit in his face, tear the mask from her own and throw it his feet. Her body betrays her, impatience and promise making her hands shake instead, and she smiles, though tight lipped and strained. 

But she smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _promise_ the smut comes in the next chapter. Bear with me!
> 
> Find me a **[Tumblr!](http://thatgirl-who.tumblr.com)**


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